


a hundred years or more

by jugandbettsdetectiveagency



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Ghosts, Mediator AU, Mystery solving, does it count as major character death if he starts as a ghost, with a happy ending eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2019-10-24 01:25:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17694953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugandbettsdetectiveagency/pseuds/jugandbettsdetectiveagency
Summary: Betty Cooper sees dead people. There it is in all its sixth sense glory. She sees them, she helps them, they move on—it is what it is. But when she’s made to up and move to the town of Riverdale so her mom can start a new life, she isn’t exactly thrilled to find one of the unresolved residents shacking up in her new bedroom. A Mediator AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heartunsettledsoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartunsettledsoul/gifts).



> this is kinda silly, just to preface. but I just chanced starting to write it and it was so fun and here we are. this is basically for all the other gals who grew up on meg cabot 💛
> 
> title from the other side by jukebox the ghost

**** Betty hadn’t been thrilled about moving. 

It wasn’t that she didn’t like to see new places, and honestly her mom’s new husband Marty was actually a pretty decent guy. He asked her about her day and listened when she replied. He indulged in Alice’s eccentricities with nothing less than a fond smile and the occasional tactical talking down when necessary. He was good for her, especially after the way things had turned out for them.

Even her new step brothers, twins Reggie and Nigel, weren’t that bad for two six-foot-something Neanderthals (although why the latter insisted  _ Sweet Pea _ was his preferred method of address she’d probably never understand).

But for all her proclamations about adventure, and their biannual holiday trips out west to visit her sister Polly at her sunshine state commune ( _ cult _ ), Betty Cooper loved the city. She loved that although she’d lived in New York for all seventeen years of her life thus far she still hadn’t even scratched the surface of the places it had to offer. She loved the people, and their hurry to always be somewhere they weren’t. When she and Polly were entering their teens, living on the third floor of a crapped out apartment building while Alice paid their way with freelance journalism gigs, they’d sit together on the cramped balcony trying to guess where passersby were headed, what they were feeling that day.

Coming up with stories came easily to Betty—an overactive imagination was a phrase she’d been hearing since she was four years old—and while some of it she liked to attribute to a voracious love of reading and an insatiable appetite for learning, the rest she had to admit came from a certain  _ natural proclivity _ of hers _.  _

Betty Cooper could see dead people. 

There it was, in all it’s sixth sense glory. But instead of an end of the movie, grand twist reveal, it was just there. Another facet of the things that made her who she was. 

If she really thinks about it, the first ghost she ever remembers seeing was when she was three years old. They’d gone to visit Grandpa Cooper in the retirement home up in Green Bay. In its past life it was a hotel and the foyer opened up into a big staircase that split into the second storey, and Betty had wandered over to look at the ornate carvings that ran the length of the banister. The old man sitting on the steps had a brass-topped cane in his right hand and sunken lips from where no teeth sat to prop them in his gums. 

_ “Don’t get lost, little lady.” _

He’d mumbled those five words to her, spittle dribbling out the corner of his mouth, and it was enough to send her fleeing back to her mother, tugging urgently on her coat. 

“What is it, Elizabeth?” her mother sighed, clearly exasperated by whatever was happening in grownup world behind the reception desk. 

“There’s a scary man on the stairs,” Betty had whispered, leaning up on tiptoes to stay as quiet as possible. 

Alice flicked her gaze towards the staircase. “There’s no one on the stairs.” And that was that. But when Betty turned back, he was still there, offering her a half-wave with a flick of his cane. She wanted to protest, but something in her throat wouldn’t let the words come out. Instead she gave the staircase a wide berth on their way to the sunroom.

Grandpa Cooper died the next spring and they didn’t have to go back again. 

It may have been the first time (albeit one she didn’t realise at the time) but that wasn’t the last time Betty saw a ghost. 

When they got back to the city the dead kept revealing themselves to Betty whether she liked it or not. And at pre-k age she definitely did  _ not _ . For her part, she did her best to ignore them. An overactive imagination, that’s all it was.

It was only when she was twelve and her father was arrested for murder that things began to get a little crazier—and a little clearer. 

She woke in the middle of the night, images of her dad picking her up and carrying her away pressing on her chest and making it difficult to breathe. 

At least, that’s what she thought. Her eyes flew open but the feeling remained, two cold hands gently squeezing her throat. 

Because that was the other  _ fun  _ thing. The dead could touch her too. And they weren’t always huggers. 

She tried to scream but all that escaped was a strangled cry, the blood pounding in her ears making it difficult to think straight. 

The pressure vanished, air rushing to her lungs so fast it’s almost painful. Betty’s too busy gasping to notice the other figure in the room, one that definitely isn’t solely from her dreams. 

“Ohmigod, I’m sorry!” the figure cried, clasping both hands in front of her mouth. Betty blinked rapidly—perhaps hoping it’d clear the hazy outline of the girl sitting on her fresh sheets if she tried hard enough—but didn’t say anything. “I can’t believe I just did that, ohmigod!” 

The girl in question was the colour of moonlight, undoubtedly due to the fact that light from the moon was currently streaming in through the crack in Betty’s curtains and shining right through her. 

She was petite, dark hair cropped close around her ears, with wide eyes that were rapidly welling with crystal tears. “What—” was all Betty managed before she had to cough to get her voice back. 

“I knew I couldn’t do it, but I thought maybe I could once I started. But then you started yelling and, oh god, I just couldn’t!” The not-there-girl threw herself face down on Betty’s sheets and began to sob. 

“Um,” Betty croaked, one hand still cupping the tender skin of her neck. “It’s okay?” She wasn’t well versed on the etiquette of how to talk to the ghost of a dead girl who just tried to choke you in your sleep. They didn’t exactly write manuals for that sort of thing. 

“Oh, and now you’re being nice to me!” she wailed. When she looked up, features all askew with sorrow, it suddenly clicked. 

“You’re Midge,” Betty whispered, feeling the intense desire to throw up. 

The ghost nodded. “Miriam Klump. Nice to meet you, I guess.” Her shoulders jumped with a sad hiccup before slumping once more.

“My dad… He killed you?” Betty could barely hear her own voice, but she didn’t know what kind of super hearing powers the dead possessed. Midge appeared to have heard her anyway. 

“Yes,” she moaned forlornly. “And I didn’t even get to go to prom.” 

That shocked Betty out of her panic for a second. “That’s what you’re upset about?” she asked before she could stop herself. Midge’s eyes flashed. 

“Of course I’m upset about it! I’m upset about a lot of things I’ll have you know. I’m upset that I didn’t get to go to prom, or graduate, or go to college. That I’ll never get a job I love or, or, smoke weed in Amsterdam, or get proposed to on the Eiffel Tower!” She was flailing her arms now and Betty had to duck to avoid being smacked in the face. 

“Alright, I’m sorry. I… I’m sorry you didn’t get to do any of those things because… someone killed you. That’s not fair.” 

The fight seemed to rush out of Midge as quickly as it came—the dead could be volatile like that. “I’m sorry, too. Y’know for trying to strangle you and everything,” she waved a hand over Betty. There was a pause that Betty didn’t know how to fill. 

“So…?” she tried, figuring it was better than nothing. Midge sighed, settling in.

“I’m stuck here, right? Like I died and there was supposed to be the white light and the moving on but I’m sorta blocked! Like there’s this barrier and I don’t know how to get past it. I tried going to see Mr Cooper but—”

“You saw my dad?” Betty couldn’t help but interrupt. 

“I thought it might be my unfinished business. Like in the movies where people hang around because there was something they didn’t get to do before they popped off? But I was just yelling at him and he couldn’t hear or see me, and I tried hitting him but I couldn’t touch him either and it made me  _ more _ mad. The lights started flickering a bit which was way cool, but then I got all woozy and had to stop,” Midge rambled, tucking her feet up beneath her on the bed. “I guess my ‘powers’ are pretty weak.”

Betty looked down at what she was wearing for the first time. Her jeans were high waisted, a pretty white and floral shirt tucked in. The pink of the flowers matched the pink of her sneakers, and if Betty had to guess, she’d have thought her lip gloss was a close shade of pink too. Midge was all pretty and plucky—and washed out by the slats of cool light pouring in from the night sky. The lump that had lodged itself in Betty’s throat from the moment she’d learned of what her father had done to one of his students pulses painfully. 

“How are you supposed to know what your unfinished business is?” Betty got out after a few difficult swallows. 

Midge shrugged then began nibbling the edge of her nail, nervously glancing between Betty’s eyes and the red marks on her neck. “I mean, when I found out that  _ you _ could see us I thought perhaps… maybe I was supposed to… well, you get it right? It makes sense.” 

Absolutely none of this made sense, but Betty thought she got where Midge was coming from. “A life for a life. Revenge for what he took from you.” The sick feeling in her gut had returned, but it was only because the image of all that life draining from Midge’s eyes crossed her mind again. 

“Exactly! But then I was doing it and it just felt so  _ wrong.  _ I knew this couldn’t be it because, I mean hey it’s not your fault your dad murdered me.” 

Betty was sure she was gonna hurl. She swallowed reflexively. He wasn’t her dad, not anymore. Definitely not from that moment on. One by one, small holes appeared in her mind, memories wiped clean, a lifetime of moments forgotten. 

Then it struck her. “Wait, how did you know I could see de— you? And what do you mean ‘us’?” Amongst all the bizarre events of the evening, Betty had bypassed those intriguing details, but now she wanted to focus on something different.

“Oh, yeah! I just got to talking to some other folk. Like, other dead people and stuff. It’s crazy how many of us are just walking around without a single person noticing. Or,” she paused, tipping her head to the side in appraisal, “I guess there is a single person. You!” 

“Other… dead people know about me?” she squeaked, not sure how she felt about that. 

“Of course they do, you’re kind of a big deal,” Midge rolled her eyes. “There’s a few of you, but not many around here. Apparently cities are overwhelming for mediators.” 

“For what?” 

“ _ Mediators _ ,” Midge repeated slowly. “People who can talk to the dead. You’re like the halfway house between this life and the next. You’re supposed to like sort us out, help us on—mediate.” She grinned, and Betty was struck once again by how pretty she was—had been. 

“Supposed to? Like… it’s my job?” Betty scrunched her nose. 

“I guess.”

She was twelve, she didn’t want a job. She wanted to play guess the destination on the balcony with Polly and get first place for the summer reading challenge at school. She wanted to watch cartoons she was too old for on Saturday mornings and eat an extra pancake when her mom wasn’t looking. Besides, she hadn’t  _ asked  _ for this, so how was it fair? 

“You’re pretty special,” Midge added, her smile softer. Betty wasn’t sure this was the kind of special she wanted to be, but she offered a weak smile back nonetheless. She was the alive one after all.

“So what’s your unfinished business then? How am I supposed to help?” The tick of her clock was loud in the following silence, and she’s suddenly aware of the heaviness weighing her eyelids now that the adrenaline has somewhat drained from her system. 

“I think you were my unfinished business,” Midge hedged, rolling back her shoulders. 

“What? But you didn’t kill me.” A thrum began beneath Betty’s skin, the fight or flight instinct getting ready to kick in again at the first sign of danger.

Midge laughed, getting up from her spot on the bed and stretching. “Silly. No, I think I was supposed to come and tell you that it’s not your fault.”

“What isn’t?” 

“Your dad. It isn’t  _ your _ fault he did what he did, and you shouldn’t keep feeling guilty over it because there was nothing you could have done differently.”

Betty bristled. “You couldn’t know that.”

“It’s weird; now that I’m dead I can sort of  _ see  _ emotions. They’ve all got colours, it’s kind of beautiful actually. And you’re as yellow and anxious as a corn field before harvest.” 

“Oh.” On instinct Betty raised her hand up, flipping it over to check. But there was nothing.

“And I think I was supposed to explain it all to you, why you can see us and what for. Had anyone ever done that?” Betty shook her head. “Then I’m sure that’s it. Now you know that you can help us, and not to be afraid.” 

“But how do you know that was it?” Betty pressed.

“Because I think that’s my ride.” Midge tipped her head towards the bright glow coming from an archway in the corner of Betty’s room. That definitely wasn’t there before. “I’m so excited! Wish me luck.” 

“Good—” It’s all she got out before Midge stepped over the threshold and vanished, the light with her. 

The next morning Betty would have thought it all a dream if it weren’t for the sudden string of ghost problems that came flooding her way. It was like they’d all received the go-ahead and now she was open for business, the agony aunt of the astral plane. 

Sometimes it was easy, like an old grandma needing you to phone up her son and tell him that there was ten thousand dollars hidden beneath the floorboards of her house before they sold it. Those ones Betty actually quite enjoyed doing. 

Other times? Not so much. 

Not all the dead were so immediately accepting of their fate. Meaning moving on was the last thing they had on their minds, especially when they insisted they weren’t even dead to begin with. 

Like, it wasn’t  _ her _ fault the NYU photography department had a little bit of a big fire in their building. But you try sticking around to tell the cops that the ghost of a student who’d accidentally ingested developer had gotten hostile when you’d asked what he thought his unfinished business was.  _ She _ was the one with bruised ribs and a tear in her favourite cardigan. 

But, to the point, Betty was happy to see new places, except she still isn’t thrilled about this move. 

Mainly because Riverdale (the town in upstate New York they’d be moving to) is built on old battle grounds. And not just that, but the house her mom and Marty had spent months having renovated for them was one of the first to be built there in the early 1900s. 

Which means the chances she’s going to encounter a buttload of unresolved residents are pretty high. And she’d rather they aren’t living in her house just to top it off either. 

The scenery flying past her train window is becoming more sparse and far more green the further away from the city they get. There was something in the densely packed buildings that Betty found comfort in—they hid her, anonymised her, cocooned her in a concrete blanket. What might seem claustrophobic to some was a relief to Betty. 

The landscape shifts, trading out high rises for hilltops, clean and uninterrupted save the occasional farmhouse or rail track. It stretches on and on and on, unexplored and unknown. 

Even if she were inclined to voice her arguments against moving to her mother (which she isn’t) she wouldn’t. For starters, her ex husband is incarcerated. Murder charges are a pretty sobering experience for everyone involved, especially the wife and daughters. 

And from what she’d seen, Marty made her mom genuinely happy, which is a feat not many could accomplish anymore. He was happy-go-lucky where she was tightly strung, and the two of them together managed to strike something of a balance. Not to mention Marty made enough money to make practically any job her mom got a hobby, an unspoken perk.

The relationship Betty shared with Alice Cooper wasn’t strained, per say. It was more that they operated on a don’t ask don’t tell basis. If Betty turned up presentable and perky and maintained her grades to a high enough standard, Alice didn’t ask questions. And Betty certainly didn’t tell answers. It had taken multiple washes to get the smell of smoke out of her jeans after her NYU rendezvous, and as far as Alice is concerned Betty’s favourite cardigan got lost at the dry cleaners. 

It’s not the most affectionate mother-daughter relationship known to man, but if it ain’t broke, etc. 

Betty lugs her bags off the train when it pulls into the idyllic Riverdale Station. Her mom had gone ahead with the movers to get everything set up for her arrival, leaving Betty to take the train with the last of her stuff once the lease was officially up on their apartment. She didn’t mind, though. It gave her a few days to say goodbye to her favourite places in peace, relishing one last bout of solitude.

She scans the parking lot, looking for signs of familiarity in this bleached out suburbia.

“Hey, Mini Coop!” Reggie waves her over, head hanging out the window of his shiny 4x4, a gift from Marty no doubt.

“We’re the same age, Reggie,” Betty grumbles, not even bothering to chastise them for not getting out to help her wrestle her bags into the trunk—they probably know they’d be more likely to get it in the neck for helping.

“Yeah, but if I had a cool nickname like that I’d want people to use it all the time,” he counters, sliding his shades back over his eyes. 

“You do, Mantle the Mongrel,” Sweet Pea snorts from the passenger seat, dodging the punch Reggie aims for his shoulder. 

“Shut it, Peahead,” he yells, honking the horn with his elbow in the scuffle that ensues. Betty jumps at the noise but leaves them to it otherwise, content to rest her head back against the leather seats until they get it together enough to start the drive back. 

The second they pull onto Elm Street her stomach drops. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” As if she needed any more omens. 

It doesn’t mean the house they pull up outside is any less picturesque. It towers before her, three storeys of white cladding, blue shutters and carved pillars holding up the wrap around porch—complete with swing seat. It’s everything her mom has ever wanted for them, and she can’t help but feel the corners of her eyes prick. 

“Elizabeth!” Alice calls right on cue, standing at the top of the steps with a controlled yet bright smile. “Isn’t it beautiful?” 

“Yeah, Mom. It looks great.” She tries her hardest to sound sincere. Marty appears behind her shoulder, sending Sweet Pea and Reggie back down the drive with one raise of his brows to help her with her bags. 

“How was your journey, Betty?” he asks warmly, following Alice down to the curb in tandem step. It’s a little unnerving, but nothing she can’t get past to please her mother. 

“Fine. No problems, I’m just kind of tired,” she smiles faintly, glancing back up at the house. 

“Of course! You’ll want to get settled in,” Marty hurries, ushering her to follow the boys up the steps. 

“Oh, Elizabeth, I can't wait for you to see what we’ve done to the house. I’m sure I’ve told you—this town was founded on the maple syrup business at the turn of the century. This house used to be the old printing press for the labels that went on the jars. It’s just down the street from the glass forge,” Alice rushes, pointing up the hill and into the trees. It’s amusing to see her mother like this, barely restraining her excitement over something. It makes a nice change and Betty leans into the warmth blooming in her chest. 

“That’s super interesting, Mom,” Betty murmurs, her lips arranging themselves in a soft smile. “Printing press, right? Guess it’s had a quiet life then.” If her voice shakes Alice doesn’t notice. 

“I’m sure it’s seen plenty,” Alice replies firmly, gesturing her inside. The interior is just as clean and new as the outside. Throw pillows and rugs and white walls make everything cosy, but they’ve left the old metal beams exposed, tying it in with industrial cabinets that lead into the kitchen. 

When Betty turns Alice is looking at her expectantly. “Oh, yeah it’s so great. Really.” 

“Isn’t it?” Alice beams. “Marty was so accommodating with everything. But I haven’t even shown you your room yet! Come,” she gestures, waving her up the staircase after her. 

“We wanted you to have the nicest room, since you’ve had to move all this way for me,” Alice says as she walks down the hall. “Top floor, right at the front of the house, with the big window…”

Betty holds her breath as the door swings open, her senses assaulted with a show of  _ pink _ . The walls are a soft petal shade, accentuated with white furnishings and floral sheets. The bed is huge, almost taking up the entire left wall with its carved headboard and clawed feet. The big window her mom had spoken of is just as big, round with wooden slats shaped like an old fashioned cart wheel. A window seat covered in pink cushions has been fitted below it. Peering out she sees that it overlooks the corner of the street, and beyond that a view of the river. It’s idyllic and quaint and, even Betty can admit, perfect. 

“That over there is Sweetwater River; Marty says the boys and their friends like to  _ hang out  _ there during summer. It might be nice if you could join them. But please be careful. I don’t want what happened to that boy to happen to you.” 

That catches her attention. 

“What boy?” Betty asks a little too quickly, keeping her eyes on her new room instead of her mother’s face. 

“It’s awful. Last summer the body of a boy named Jason Blossom washed up on the banks after he’d slipped in and drowned...” Alice trails off, her thoughts clearly back in a past life, back in the city. 

“Wait, Blossom as in…” Betty points to the wall opposite her bed. 

Framed delicately amongst the pink is a big metal slab, clearly aged, announcing that  _ ‘Blossom’s Maple Syrup Is The Best In Town!’ _ .

Alice comes back to herself. “Oh, yes! Marty saved that from the old presses we found in the basement, he thought you’d like it. But yes, it’s the same family. It seems they were here from the start.” 

Betty takes a moment to ponder that, wondering vaguely if Jason Blossom had finished all his business before he decided to take a more permanent dip in the river named for his family’s industry. 

“That was… nice of him. Um, I’m kind of tired, Mom,” Betty chances hesitantly, hoping it’s enough to get a second to regain balance in this foreign setting. 

“Of course, Elizabeth. Your bathroom has all new towels in and I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.” She pauses for a beat. “Thank you, for making this easy for me. I know it’s been difficult up until now.”

“It’s nothing,” Betty cuts in, not wanting to get into it now. “I’m glad you’re happy.” 

Alice pats her hair down once before she’s gone and Betty is left alone in her new room. 

Well, almost. 

“Alright,” she sighs, turning with her hands on her hips to face the occupant of her window seat, late afternoon sun slanting through his  _ everything _ . “You’re going to have to move.” 

The ghost looks up, startled. He checks behind himself quickly, still silent. 

“Yes, you. As you may have just heard from your eavesdropping, this is my new room, and I don’t think my mom would be thrilled to find a boy staying here, do you?” she quips. She finds that bravery, however faux, when confronting the dead for the first time tends to get you off on the right foot. Mostly. 

Sometimes it just pisses them off. 

“Are you talking to me?” the dead guy asks, eyes still wide in bewilderment. It’s kind of annoying actually because when he does that Betty can see that they’re a light, intense blue, turned down at the corners with faint creases where his laughter lines would be. His skin looks weathered and sun kissed, forearms bared by the sleeves of the flannel shirt he’s wearing rolled up to his elbows. He looks lanky, probably tall when he stands, but he’s currently got one foot propped against her new window seat (a fact Alice would not be happy about if ghosts could have muddy boots) and the other planted on the floor as he regards her cautiously. A curl of dark hair has escaped from beneath the brim of what looks like a crown shaped beanie and—

Well, it’s annoying because he’s a ghost, sitting on the window seat of her new room, and he’s really hot.

Betty tries not to fraternise with the dead more than needs be, they are the ones encroaching on her life with their favours after all. But that doesn’t mean she’s  _ blind _ . Of course it’d be the ghost that lives in her bedroom who turns out to be distractingly attractive.

She squares her shoulders, shaking herself out, trying to look at a totally neutral spot on his forehead instead. 

“There’s no one else here, unless you’ve got a friend in the bathroom,” she replies, adding in just enough snark to test the waters. 

“Err, no.” His voice is rough with disuse, and it’s totally not helping the whole ignoring his hotness thing. 

“Right, well. I know this is a change, but change is good and as this is now my room I’m going to need you to vacate it as soon as possible. Anything I can do to help,” she pauses, considering, “within reason, I’ll be happy to. But in the meantime I’d like it if you were to move—”

His smile cuts her off. It’s off putting to say the least. “I don’t think so, schatz.”

“What did you just call me?” 

“I was here first, I don’t see why I should move.” He stands then, and Betty was right; he’s tall and lean, but the way he folds his arms across his chest definitely hints at muscle hiding beneath his shirt, across his chest and shoulders. It’s not drawing her attention  _ at all _ . 

Absently she notes a pair of suspenders hanging loosely from his hips.

“Because we bought this house and intend to live here. Signed, sealed, delivered. No room for unwanted tenants,” she scowls, mirroring his stance. 

“It’s not my fault you can see me—you’re the first one in a hundred years.” That startles her. 

“A hundred years?” Betty repeats, shock evident in her tone. He shuffles uncomfortably under her gaze, and she thinks that if he had a pulse he’d be blushing. 

“Well, a century or not, you can’t stay here. Isn’t there a local creepy house you can go haunt or something?” 

He scoffs. “And just how do you think—” 

“Oh, Elizabeth?” Her mother’s voice cuts him off, echoing up from the floor below. She huffs in frustration before turning towards the sound. 

“Yeah, Mom?” 

“Just letting you know dinner is in an hour—Marty’s setting up the grill.” 

“Okay,” she calls back, bracing herself to turn back and face her ghost. “Now—”

She stops short, face to face with an empty room. 

If this were her first rodeo she’d be delighted to think she’s won. But it isn’t and she surely hasn’t. Tiredness suddenly washes over her, the long journey catching up and she can’t bring herself to worry about it further. He’s gone for now and that’s enough for her to kick off her sneakers and fall into the cloud of new sheets on her bed, drifting into a fitful sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

The ghost still isn’t around when she wakes less than an hour later. Betty’s slept just enough that she feels groggy and disoriented as she stumbles into the bathroom to splash water on her face and retie her ponytail before she faces family dinner. 

 

They’d only had an all sit-down meal a couple of times, but Betty had quickly learned it was either get in quick or don’t get fed at all around her new brothers. She didn’t know where they stored it all, other than the fact they both had half a foot over her, despite Sweet Pea’s propensity to hunch. 

 

A soft brush against her legs makes her pause at the door. A quiet meow has her bending down to pet Caramel’s ginger fur. “Hey, furry baby. Where’ve you’ve been hiding?” Caramel had been part of the family since she was ten and a family of kittens had been found in a dumpster next to their apartment. Even if Betty wasn’t a sucker for tiny paws and kitten whiskers, Caramel’s natural instinct to avoid all things spectral made her a handy sidekick to have around. “Staying away from the big, bad ghost boy?” Caramel purrs. “C’mon, it’s showtime.” Smoothing her hair down one last time she takes a deep breath and prepares to act the part. 

.

.

.

“Betty, have a seat!” Marty’s the first to greet her after she follows her nose to the scent of grilled meat on the decking. The rest of her blended family are sitting around the garden furniture, the pink light of the gradually setting sun flooding the backyard until it’s picture perfect. “Food’s coming up.” 

 

“Did you fall asleep, Elizabeth? You’ve got creases in your cheek,” Alice notes, peering at her from over her reading glasses. She’s got her tablet in her lap, looking over what looks like initial layouts for her first day of work tomorrow. Her mom has the honour (and apparently it is _an honour_ ) of taking over the Riverdale Register, the town’s highly regarded source of all things small town news. She’d been quietly itemising her plan of action for weeks now. 

 

Betty rubs at her face self-consciously, trying to smooth out the lines. “Just a little.” 

 

“Do you like your new room?” Marty sets a platter in the middle of the table and in a flurry of hands half of it vanishes before she has time to blink. “Your mom designed everything just how you’d like it.” 

 

Betty doesn’t have the heart to tell him that how her mom designed it is how Alice would _want_ her to like it. “Best room in the house,” she echoes, smiling tightly as she takes a bread roll. _Minus the centuries old asshole who happens to live there too. And who is unfortunately cute._ “I love the view of the river.” She cringes at the stock answers she keeps word-vomiting out at these people, but Marty’s pleased grin tells her she’s the only one who has a problem with it. 

 

“Sweetwater’s quite the hot spot around here. Maybe Reggie and Sweet Pea could take you to meet some folks before school starts. If there’s any get togethers happening there soon.” There’s a strong underlying note of authority in his voice that lets everyone know they have no choice. 

 

“It’s a party, Dad. No one says ‘get together’ anymore,” Reggie gets out between mouthfuls. Betty’s eyes involuntarily follow the pieces of food that comes flying out of his mouth. 

 

“A _party_ you’ll be happy to take your new sister to, and introduce her to your friends.” Reggie shrugs, nonplussed.

 

Betty starts to panic. “Oh really, Marty, it’s okay. I don’t really want—”

 

“No, Elizabeth, I’m sure the boys would love to take you. It’d do you good to get to know the town before you start school in the fall. Make connections, that sort of thing.” Of course, it’s always about who you know with Alice. 

 

The thing is, Betty isn’t averse to social gatherings. The living aren’t all that interested in bothering her—definitely not as much as the unliving are. If she stays quiet and sticks to the shadows, like she did in the city, getting by in crowds doesn’t irk her in the slightest. 

 

But in a brand new town—one that’s the size of a thimble—where a new kid probably comes along once in a blue moon, she’s bound to get noticed. And that’s when things usually start heading south pretty quickly for Betty. 

 

Having a string of bad luck following her is one thing. Seemingly talking to herself is another. It’s harder than it looks to hide the fact that while the girl from fourth period chem is asking if you copied down the assignment, a malevolent maintenance worker from the turn of the century is behind her trying to rattle the row of lockers until they fall and squish a freshman. 

 

Meeting new people tends to come with a lot of personal questions, and Betty just isn’t equipped to answer them—nor does she want to. 

 

Especially in a spot that she was recently informed housed a dead body for several days last summer. 

 

 _Malevolent spirits_ tend to hang around their place of death, like they’ve got nothing better to do. 

 

The main issue is that in order to please Alice Cooper, one has to be a social butterfly. Or, perhaps no, that’s not the right phrasing. One has to be willing to stick their nose into other people’s business. The perfect Cooper facade of sweater sets and hair rollers is just another way to weasel her way into the lives of others, to see if there is something worth holding on to. Although, learning such tactics does have its perks when trying to convince the left-behinds of whoever she’s mediating that no, she’s not crazy and yes, she did just so happen to find a secret letter explaining all their loved one’s last wishes. 

 

It certainly worked with Marty Mantle—he fell for her mom’s act hook, line, and ring on the finger sinker. 

 

Betty has wondered on multiple occasions if she could get away with asking how her mom told him she was wife of famed teenage girl killer, Hal Cooper. A suitable opening doesn’t really present itself over getting-to-know-you brunches. 

 

In just the same way, Betty can’t figure out how to tell the table that, thanks for the offer but she really doesn’t want to alienate herself among her new peers before the school year even starts. Especially by doing something otherworldly embarrassing at a party. 

 

She sucks in a breath, hoping that the right excuse will just come out if she doesn’t think too hard. But instead what she hears herself saying is, “Awesome, I’d like that.” _Idiot_. 

 

The rest of dinner is relatively painless, mainly involving her pretend listening face as she slips pieces of meat to the Mantle’s sheepdog, Hot Dog, beneath the table. He seemed wary of her to start with, but the minute she ‘dropped’ half her hamburger to the decking his head had soon taken up residence on her knees, excited slobber and all. 

 

There’s something else, tingling across her skin, hovering somewhere between nerves and anticipation, that has her wanting to rush back to her room and avoid it altogether. 

 

Like a bug that just won’t go away, she can’t stop her mind from drifting towards the top floor of their new Addam’s family home, wondering if he’ll be there when she gets back. The alternative is to stay downstairs and listen to Marty’s stories of success, her mom’s thinly veiled criticisms, or get squished between Reggie and Sweet Pea while they hurl punches at each other and try to hold onto their respective controllers. She offers to load the dishwasher. It wins her points, at least. 

 

“Hey, um, Marty? Does Hot Dog need taking for a walk?” She supposes a stint in the late summer weather and a bout of fresh air is as good an activity as any to avoid the inevitable ascent of the stairs. In betrayal her eyelashes flutter, a tightness around her eyes alerting Betty to the fact that her little siesta was nowhere near enough sleep after a day of packing and travel. Rapid blinking works to clear some of the tiredness. “It might help me familiarise myself with the neighbourhood.”

 

“Hot Dog doesn’t like walks.” Sweet Pea directs his comment towards the bloodbath on the TV screen. Betty isn’t sure how to respond to that other than the quiet “oh” she lets slip. 

 

“That’s really nice of you to offer, Betty,” Marty cuts in over the audio, unhooking the leash from where it hangs by the door. “Lord knows these two never do.” He punctuates his sentence with a light thwack to the back of his son’s head with his newspaper. “The roads are pretty easy to navigate round here, you shouldn’t get too lost. The park is a few blocks that way.” 

 

“Yeah, thanks.” Betty slips on her boots—a soft, worn leather with silver studs that have been on many a midnight mediating session with her—and ushers the lolloping dog out the door and into the street.

.

.

.

Sweet Pea wasn’t lying. Hot Dog, Betty soon discovers, does not like walks. 

 

He puts up with the subtle tug of the leash she’s applying for several streets, before dragging his feet and stopping every few yards to sit on the sidewalk and whine. At first she tolerates it, content to stand and take in her new surroundings without interruption. The neighbourhood seems pristine and uniform as she passes house after house, all with perfectly mown lawns and pruned hedges. She wonders if some kind of qualification in gardening is mandatory for moving in around here. 

 

But by the sixth or seventh time it’s starting to get irritating. 

 

“Hot Dog,” she groans as he plonks his oversized butt down on the asphalt while Betty attempts to cross the street. He lets out a pathetic noise and turns his wide eyes upwards to plead with her from beneath a sheet of shaggy fur. “Look,” Betty continues after some fruitless pulls at the leash. “I’m not thrilled by the prospect of daily exercise either but I can’t let Sweet Pea be proven right on my first day here—what kind of foot would that start me off on?” 

 

Hot Dog sneezes in response. “Glad you agree,” Betty mutters, squinting as she looks back up the road. The last of the colour has faded from the sky, a warm, cloudless night ahead of them. “We can head home?” she tries desperately. Hot Dog immediately stands, leading her back the way they’ve come. “Typical.” 

 

Betty has to admit, short though it was, the walk has done something to settle her nerves. So far she’s spotted no restless dead gracing the streets of Riverdale, at least in the vicinity of her new house. If it wasn’t for her unwelcome resident she’d almost think she was onto a winner here. 

 

His presence comes crashing back to the forefront of her mind as they round the corner of Elm Street, the big house looming at the end of the road. The night air had helped her forget some of the most recent events since entering her bedroom, but now she was ready to face them head on—or rather, face him. The steely approach hadn’t seemed to earn her any favours before, so now Betty has decided to go back in with a fresh approach, utilise some of the Cooper charm she’d learned by proxy, and reason with her mysterious centurion. That room simply wasn’t fit for the both of them, _surely_ he would see that with a little persuasion. Betty fishes the pink-tinted lip gloss out of her pocket and applies a fresh layer just in case it helps.

 

The rest of the household have retreated to their rooms when she steps over the threshold. Hot Dog races ahead of her up the staircase, cowering as he passes the second set that lead to her top floor bedroom. That’s almost never a good sign when it comes to ghouls and animals.

 

Some of her earlier nerves creep back in as she draws nearer. Maybe it was all just the illusion of sunset and travel fatigue, and he wasn’t as good looking as she thought he was before, and she’ll be able to look him in the eye without the blood rushing to her cheeks, her thoughts wandering somewhere south of appropriate. More than that, she’ll be able to persuade him to get the hell out of her room with at least a portion of her dignity intact.

 

Taking a deep breath, Betty pushes open the door with too much caution and peers around the room. Still empty. _Huh_. The only presence is Caramel, curled up at the foot of the bed, letting out gentle snores that add something familiar and comforting to the otherwise silent room. That alone is enough to confirm her suspicions that this is a ghost free zone. Perhaps her earlier efforts had been more effective than she previously thought. Sure, it didn’t happen often in her experience, but uptight ghosts could have changes of heart every once in a while. Now she felt a little guilty for being so harsh on the guy.

 

Just to be on the safe side, Betty changes for bed in her bathroom. Peep shows aren’t high up on her list of extracurriculars.

 

The last of her adrenaline having dissipated, Betty can think of nothing more enticing than the call of her new bed as she brushes her teeth and washes her face. She’s going to crawl beneath the fresh sheets, scoop Caramel from the foot up to her pillow and drift into a (hopefully) uninterrupted sleep.

 

Except Caramel isn’t on the bed where Betty left her when she emerges from the bathroom. Instead she’s on her back on the window seat, legs akimbo, purring heartily as New Ghost Dude rubs her under the chin.

 

_Traitor!_

 

“Your cat is so friendly.” It’s a simple sentence but it makes her bristle all the same. He smiles, revealing two dimples and a set of teeth more perfect than Betty thought could be maintained a hundred years ago.

 

A shiver runs down her spine. Any attempt to reason rationally with this guy—who’s way past his sell by date, she thinks with some malice—fly from her head. Betty’s fists curl of their own accord. “She doesn’t normally take so kindly to those who aren’t living,” she bites out, not sure whether to settle her scowl on him or the cat.

 

“Guess I’m just lucky, schatz.” Caramel aims a playful swipe at his hand which he dodges with a chuckle.

 

“Stop calling me that.” He’d done it before, when they first met, and she hated not knowing what it meant, or why he did it. He also looks so smug when he does it, too. For all she knows he could be calling her something derogatory, and that wouldn’t stand at _all_.

 

He regards her for a moment. His eyes narrow a little, but they’re tipped with what looks like amusement at the corners. “That woman earlier—your mother?—she called you Elizabeth.”

 

“Betty,” she corrects instinctually. “I go by Betty.”

 

He stands from the window seat but doesn’t make to move closer. The suspenders that were down around his hips before are now pulled into place over his shoulders, she realises. “Betty,” he repeats like he’s testing it out on his tongue. 

 

Her knees weaken a fraction. She sucks in a breath and folds her arms to regain some composure. “Not that you’ll have much opportunity to call me anything after you leave,” she mutters pointedly. When he just continues to smile she sighs. “What about you?” 

 

He lifts a single brow. “What?”

 

“Do you have a name? I think considering the fact you seem hellbent on not leaving my room anytime soon we should at least be on a first name basis with one another.” 

 

The ghost looks down, chuckling a little as he scratches at Caramel’s belly. “It’s Jughead.” 

 

Betty blinks. “Is that an early twentieth century thing or…?” 

 

“It was a nickname from—” He cuts off suddenly, shoulders stiffening enough to be noticeable. “From my father.” 

 

 _Daddy issues_ , Betty thinks with an internal eye roll. _Well at least they‘d have something in common_. “Nice to meet you, Jughead. Hope you’re doing well, how old are you, where did you grow up, what did you want to be when you were younger?” 

 

“What are you doing?” Jughead asks with a furrowed brow. 

 

“Getting the pleasantries out of the way. Now that that’s dealt with, I’m going to have to kindly ask you, _again_ , to vacate my room.” Betty tips her hand towards the door, despite knowing full well that he doesn’t need to use it to disappear. “It’s getting kind of late for guests.” 

 

Jughead tilts his head, something hardening in his cool grey eyes. “How I’m doing is dead. I’m nineteen, give or take a hundred years. I grew up here, or roundabouts, and I wanted to be a writer. Have you always been able to talk to ghosts?.” 

 

She ignores him.“I didn’t really need to know the answers, thanks,” Betty replies with narrowed eyes. The hairs on her arms had risen with the word ‘dead’ uttered so blatantly. She’d suppressed a wince and tried to keep her expression neutral. It was unusual for her to recoil so much from the sound—after all, dead was part of her life on a pretty much daily basis. And if _Jughead_ had been sitting about her room for the last century, then he had to be pretty well aware of the fact himself. There was just something about the way he’d said it that made her insides curdle. 

 

“Then don’t ask the questions.” That amused smile is back, and it’s equal parts irritating and enticing. Betty shakes herself free of her spiral. 

 

“You seem to be avoiding the most important one—what are you still doing here?” 

 

He shrugs. “Maybe I just like it.” 

 

She groans her frustration, the edges of her eyes stinging. “Unfortunately, that doesn’t really do it for me. Like I said, if there’s anything I can do to help you on your way then, please, let me know.” 

 

Jughead merely blinks. “Fine!” Betty throws her hands in the air, bringing them down against her thighs with a slap. “Be that way. I'm too exhausted for this, and apparently there’s some party I have to go to where I’d rather not be sporting the zombie look the first time I meet my new peers. But in the meantime,” she barrels on, throwing back the covers, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t watch me while I sleep. This isn’t _Twilight_.” 

 

“What?” Jughead’s brow furrows adorably, and Betty has to twist her lips to quell a smile. 

 

“Nothing.” 

 

She clicks the lights off, huffing her way into a comfortable position, arms folded tightly over her chest. He’s still on the window seat, can sense him in the air, almost taste the metallic tang that comes with the presence of a ghost. Betty closes her eyes dutifully but sleep doesn’t come, not when she’s tense and rigid, body refusing to relax into slumber. 

 

Just when she’s resigned herself to a sleepless night something in the air shimmers. She wants to look but her eyes won’t open, bottom lip working its way beneath her teeth. 

 

And then, so softly she’s not sure she hears it. “Sleep well, schatz.”

 

Betty’s asleep before she can think anymore on it.

**Author's Note:**

> a comment is always appreciated if you enjoyed!


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